Death And All His Friends
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: Everyone's experience with death is unique. How do our characters make it through the night after Tosh and Owen are lost? Very angsty, but with a hint of optimism, this is my take on how they each deal with death. Gwen/Rhys and Jack/Ianto.


Rating: T (for safety)

Warnings: Severe angst, slash and some naughty words.

Pairings: Gwen/Rhys, Jack/Ianto

Spoilers: Spoilers for 2.13 (Exit Wounds), 2.9 (Something Borrowed) and 1.4 (Cyberwoman) and Doctor Who 2.12/13 (Army of Ghosts/Doomsday). And hints at the rest of the series.

Disclaimer: The only people here I own are Rhys' grandparents and some of the people in Ianto's photographs. The rest I am merely borrowing...I will return them in good condition once I have finished having my wicked way with them. ;-)

Notes: This was inspired by a discussion going on on the Internet Movie Database Torchwood Forums, in which someone mentioned a quote by Eve Myles in which she stated that she believed Gwen felt the deaths of Tosh and Owen more than Jack or Ianto. Although I disagreed with this, I realised that the impact it would have would be hugely different for each of the characters, and I wanted to explore that and how death impacts differently upon the lives of our beloved characters. Plus, I wanted to give Rhys a little bit of backstory, because I love his character so much and feel he deserves it.

This was originally intended to be three different sections, one for each of our surviving characters, but I was desperate to write Gwen/Rhys, and also felt that Jack and Ianto would probably turn to each other on the night Tosh and Owen died, so this idea was replaced by just the two sections.

I also meant them to be basically equal in length However, Jack's thoughts got kind of waffly. There was so much he wanted to say, and I couldn't bare to leave anything out. I write what they tell me to, so it's their fault, not mine :-).

All mistakes are my own as I have no beta * pouts *

* * *

**Death and All His Friends**

When Rhys Williams was 15 years old his grandfather had been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of bone cancer and given a few weeks to live.

These weeks had been the longest of Rhys life; when the diagnosis was first given, he had braced himself, believing that the time would pass all too quickly. He could not, at that age, have comprehended of anything more cruel than the swift passage of time cutting short his grandfather's life.

He had soon learned that the slow, cold reality was far worse than his fiercest adolescent imaginings. Seeing the swift deterioration of his strong, passionate grandparent into a whithered husk he no longer recognised was something that was seared forever into his brain. He remembered sitting beside his bed, hoping, wishing, praying for the end to come; partly to ease the suffering of his beloved grandfather, and partly because he believed that with death would come his own personal absolution.

But when the "relief" of death finally came, six weeks after that fatal judgement had been passed, the weight of pain was swiftly replaced by the weight of guilt. Had his own imaginings and prayers ended his grandfather's life too soon? Was it his fault? That vacant look in his grandmother's eyes; the constant wetness clouding his usually stoic mother's vision; that cold, shock of realisation that the light wood of the coffin contained the last remaining remnants of the grandfather he had known and loved.

Stricken down with the torments of adolescence and grief, Rhys had retreated into himself like he never had done before or since. He only allowed himself out of the house for school; his academic achievement dropped like a stone; food only passed his lips when absolutely necessary; he spent every waking hour, minute and second dwelling on what he could have done, how he could have done it...all the ifs and whats and whens and maybes that would now never be fulfilled.

Then, exactly one month before his 16th birthday, his mam had taken him firmly by the ear and dragged him, fighting only half-heartedly, to the mirror so that he could see what they saw every day of their lives.

And that was what he saw, nearly fifteen years later, when he opened the door of their modest, yet homely, flat. That vacant, haunted look of someone who has lost all direction and comprehension. The look that simply says: Why?

"Oh God..." was all Gwen could manage, her voice barely a whisper, before she stepped, stumbled almost, into his arms, which were already open to catch her.

"Tosh...Owen..." she sobbed continuously, clinging to him as if she were drowning and he her only oxygen. The weight of air around them suddenly felt heavy, far too heavy, and Rhys quickly moved them to the familiar comfort of the sofa, where he had held her some weeks before as she cried over the fate of Jonah Bevan and his mother.

The phone call arrived a few moments later; Jack Harkness, his voice quiet, as if caught in his throat, so different from the commanding, almost stupidly domineering boom that Rhys had come to grudgingly accept whenever coming into contact with the leader of Torchwood Three.

It was just words: "Toshiko Sato...Owen Harper...lost...duty to the city...": but Rhys knew the full horror that such simple words could carry.

"Bone cancer...two months at best...make him comfortable..."

Terrible, painful, life-altering words.

Rhys knew that Gwen saw so much death with Torchwood, so much wasted, brutal, terrible death; death in so many forms, carrying so many different meanings and connotations, so many questions and answers, so many conflicting emotions. But he also knew that this was something new. All that she had seen affected her greatly; she wore her heart on her sleeve, her emotions laid bare for all to see, and he loved her deeply for that compassion, that unbelievable belief that what she was doing was _right. _But she had never lost anyone this close; both of her grandfather's had died before she was born, and both of her grandmother's had been lost before she had been old enough to register the full implications of such an event.

This was, for want of a better word, completely alien.

This was something new. And it hurt. Rhys knew it hurt. The tears soon dried up, but that glassy, lost look remained, even as he held her in bed that night, unable and unwilling to let her go even for a second. The look of somebody who suddenly realised that all was not right with the world, that the world is deep and dark and confusing, and that all the goodness that poured into the world cannot possibly compete with the great shit of existence.

Gwen clung to him, breathing in his familiar smell. Her mind raced at an uncontrollable speed as she alternated between denial and realisation, truth and lie, fear for the future and longing for the past.

_Tosh...Owen..._

They were gone. They weren't coming back. It hit her again, slamming into her like a great hammer had just been swung at her chest and she felt herself curling up, mentally and physically. Rhys' arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer as she burrowed deeper into his embrace, seeking some kind of darkness, some kind of peace from the torment of her own mind. It was this...this loss of control that hurt. Seeing Tosh, sweet, heroic Tosh, the life leaving her with each drop of blood that fell from her wound, that sudden realisation that there was absolutely nothing she could do. Tosh was dying. And Owen was dead. And the world was shit. And she, Gwen, was just one person, powerless in the face of such darkness...

A sob raked through her body and she felt her cheeks wet with tears.

"Hey..." Rhys pulled back ever so slightly, so that their eyes could meet properly. He hadn't yet wasted breath on meaningless words of consolation, merely held her, letting his actions and his love speak for him. But now...she choked. The adoration in his eyes...his words, "_You're a bloody hero, Gwen"..._ how could she tell him that it was all a lie? That she was useless? That it didn't matter how hard she tried, this world was still as fucked up as it ever had been?

"Rhys...I..."

"It's not your fault."

"But it's all so...God...there's nothing..." the words caught in her throat, grating against her vocal cords as another sob racheted through her body.

"There are so many people who are still alive because of you...because of them. Because of Tosh and Owen..." his eyes welled up. He didn't know them well, but he had still known them. And they were still dead. And death was so heart-breakingly, devastatingly final. Gwen reached her hand up to stroke his face gently, and managed her first smile...

"I know."

"I don't know...how you do it..." he met her smile with a pained one of his own. "But you're all heroes...all of you. And we rely on you lot...you gotta keep going Gwen...You and Jack Bloody Harkness and that Ianto Jones..."

"Because how the hell could Cardiff ever survive without that coffee?" she smiled fondly, letting a slight laugh escape her lips. Even if it did break slightly, caught somewhere between laughter and tears.

The pain still cut through her like a gaping wound, but suddenly she felt...as if perhaps the first stitch had been put in place. Or at least would be soon. It was as if...maybe it wasn't the end of the world. Life would go on, like it always seemed to do. Whether saving Cardiff, fighting aliens, or even just sitting down to Rhys' Spaghetti Bolognese and fighting over the correct way to bleed the radiators. She smiled a little more, feelings the tears collect in the corners of her smile.

"By the way...I still want that second wedding you promised me."

Rhys groaned...

"Shall I order the bloody maternity dress in advance this time?"

"Oh Rhys Williams," she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him softly on the lips. "Promise me you'll never change."

He smiled weakly, bending down ever so slightly to return the kiss. Gwen's arms hooked around his neck as she settled herself into the crook of his arm and closed her eyes. Rhys watched as the rise and fall of her chest began to slow in its rhythm, feeling his own exhaustion wash over him. Leaning back slightly to settle himself, he felt a small moan escape her lips at the brief loss, and he once again enveloped her in his arms, feeling her fighting to extend their contact.

Sleep didn't come easily for either of them. But, holding tightly onto one another, a peace was achieved that they knew would not have been possible otherwise.

And, as long as this night was, having each other to cling to was going to make it just that little bit easier.

* * *

The thing that struck Jack first was how little furniture Ianto actually had in his flat.

Despite the basic necessities; a chair, a table, another chair, a bookcase; there was very little to suggest that anyone actually had permanent residence here. It reminded Jack how houses look the morning after moving in; only the integral furnishings had been unpacked, leaving room for the more homely touches to be added at a later date. And Jack had moved about enough in his – very long- lifespan to know essential details such as this.

He guessed that the reason for this was because Ianto could hardly be classed as having _permanent residence_ here. Torchwood seemed to be, in every respect, his life...heck, he was even spending more nights back at the Hub than he actually spent here. It was as if Torchwood was _it_. Everything else was secondary.

Something told Jack that he should feel slightly guilty about this. It was probably wasn't a healthy state of things; Ianto was Torchwood Three's youngest member...by rights there should be slightly more to his life than just the organisation. But, as much as he contemplated, the guilt wouldn't be summoned.

It was Torchwood One that had destroyed his life from the inside out, not the Cardiff Branch. The moment they had decided to harness the energy of the "Ghosts" coming through the void was the moment that they had condemned him; ever since he had dragged the half-living Lisa out of the burning remnants of Canary Wharf, his life had had one focus. His life and the Torchwood Institute were forever entwined; the focus of his life had just been redirected.

Jack didn't have anything to feel guilty about. The Ianto Jones now asleep in the next room was a different creature to the broken man who they'd had to drag away from the half converted body of Lisa just over 18 months ago. Even if his flat seemed to have remained in stasis, unchanged from the moment he had moved in, even down to the unpacked boxes in the corner of the room.

Suddenly, he was reminded of Tosh and Owen's flats. They would need clearing out, boxing up...everything that made those houses into homes needed to be removed, catalogued and cleared away. He closed his eyes. He could hardly face it. Torchwood protocol stated that that was the fate of Torchwood employees killed in active duty. Their lives and possessions stored forever in some dusty section of the archive.

It was the "right" thing to do, by the Torchwood manual. But how could the right thing seem so wrong?

He had had so much experience with death in his life. He'd given up counting the number of times he himself had died; it always scared him how little he could comprehend death despite having such first-hand experience. Every time he died, the darkness consuming him was just as daunting and unyielding in its secrets, just as incomprehensible as every other time he had plunged into it.

It was this underlying fear of the darkness that haunted him every second of everyday he remained alive and immortal. Although he would never admit this fear to anyone, let alone himself, it burrowed deep into his synapses at every waking moment. This fear often manifested itself in his inability to sleep. Of course he needed to sleep, and he did; even someone who can't die is not free from the insanity that can result from sleep deprivation. When he did sleep, however, he slept fitfully and disjointedly, often waking in the throes of some nightmare or another. Sometimes, it was too brief and fragmented to even qualify as "sleep".

He turned his head slightly, listening to the slightly erratic breathing coming from the room where Ianto slept; he could tell from the rhythm of the breaths and the incessant stirring that this was not a peaceful sleep. He doubted whether any of them would sleep well tonight; he imagined Rhys holding tightly onto Gwen, unwilling to sleep properly even if she eventually managed to drift off, one eye constantly open to be certain of her comfort. Tonight, sleep was needed but not welcomed; it brought much needed rest knotted with fear and uncertainty for the future.

As his mind shot wildly from one thought to another, he found himself idly rifling through one of the many open, yet un-emptied, boxes that had been unceremoniously shoved to the side of the room. He knew deep down it was slightly presumptuous of him, assuming Ianto wouldn't have a problem with this, but at that moment he didn't really care. Anything to take his mind off of today...of the two thousand years that had passed since he woke up this this morning.

Settling in one of the two chairs in the room, he pulled out a small box of photographs. They didn't seem to be from any particular time; Jack frowned slightly. For someone who rather obsessively kept everything catalogued and in order, Ianto had been surprisingly uncaring in his storage of such objects; _precious_ objects, Jack would even venture. But then again, Ianto could be surprisingly unpredictable at times. For someone who seemed so rational, keeping a half-converted cybernetic girlfriend in the basement...that was something that Jack would perhaps have expected from one of the others, but definitely not Ianto.

He fingered the edges of the photographs ponderously. The corners were ragged and worn, as if someone had done exactly the same as he was now doing, continuously and repetitively. He recognised Ianto himself in some of the pictures, alongside Lisa and a few others he could vaguely remember from the few times he had visited Torchwood One. Others, however, were completely new faces. A large group photo, all in casuals; possibly a work gathering. Ianto, Lisa, and lots of other smiling, yet unfamiliar faces. Casually, Jack flipped it over.

_John Edmunds, 27; Katie Hammond, 32; Francesca Brown, 21; Lisa Hallet, 25; Nick Masters, 36..._

It wasn't the names scribbled on the back that worried him. Nor was it the hurried, very un-Ianto-like scrawl in which the countless names and ages were recalled, one after the other; ordered almost like a register of some description. Because this definitely was not a register.

It was a list of the dead.

The thing that disturbed Jack the most was the angry, violent red lines crossing through each and every name that appeared. Every single one except Ianto's own name. Each line cutting through the words, marking that life as over, ended, cut short. Wasted.

Photograph after photograph. Name after name. Line after line.

"Shit…"

"You know that most people would consider that rude."

"That is the general idea one has in mind when an expletive is used."

"You know that's not what I meant," Ianto moved away from where had been leaning, not so much nonchalantly as exhaustedly, on the doorframe, and settled himself on the arm of the chair that Jack had slumped in. The silence that followed was anything but awkward; if anything they revelled in the lack of words. It was definitely easier than forming syllables at this point.

Jack, of course, was the first to speak.

"Long day."

Ianto didn't reply, but the corner of his mouth turned upwards into a half smile that Jack had seen before; the kind of smile that, whilst being genuine, didn't quite meet the eyes. Sighing quietly, he put the group photographs back into their casing and laid them on the arm of the chair.

The eyes of the younger man followed the movement, resting almost accusingly on the small, un-threatening pile of material. He could feel memories stirring in the back of his mind. Memories he had successfully repressed for a very long time, bringing with them unwelcome sensations that he could definitely do without at this moment.

His chest tightened ever so slightly...this feeling of guilt that had followed him from London to Cardiff, that stupid, unequivocal shame at surviving, was twisting at his heart. It was always _somebody else_. Never _him_. What did that say about him?

He moved jerkily away from Jack, one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair as the sudden movement caused the blood to rush to his head. The air of the room felt like it was suffocating him, and he turned quickly, quietly – no change there then, he thought bitterly – back towards the bedroom.

Jack didn't follow him. Ianto didn't expect him to. He himself wasn't the heaviest of sleepers; he'd lost count of the number of times he had awoken in the night to find Jack, wide awake and keeping himself amused. Ianto fell asleep before Jack and woke before him; he had no proof that Jack actually slept at all.

Wrapping himself in the still warm duvet, he realised how even his home didn't hold a reassuring familiarity for him. The only constant in his life was Jack, and he wasn't renowned for being particularly consistent. For someone who was eager to label everything around him, Ianto was almost amusingly unwilling to categorise his own life. He still didn't know what Jack and he had, if anything...and he didn't really care. It was something. It was more than he'd had before.

He'd even been willing to call the little clique they'd had, the five of them, the closest thing he'd felt to having a family in a long time

But now...Tosh and Owen. His throat hurt unbearably as he swallowed back the tears. He thought he'd been prepared; he'd known that this was a possibility. He'd worked for Torchwood for four years, he knew the risks very well. Perhaps more than anyone, after the debacle – no, the stupid tragedy – that was Canary Warf. For a long time it had been hard to close his eyes without hearing those screams and seeing that unbearable, incomprehensible carnage. But he had overcome that, put it behind him if that was at all possible.

Now his eyelids were painted with the image of Tosh, broken and bleeding, on the floor of the autopsy room.

He supposed he'd always assured himself that he'd be the first one to go. After being the survivor for so long, Death was sure to catch up with him at some point.

The bed dipped beside him, but he didn't bother turning around. A cool hand slipped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he let himself be drawn in. He could feel Jack's breath hitting the back of his neck, knowing instinctively that there was something he wanted to say. Ianto would perhaps have preferred the numbness of silence, but if Jack was going to open up, a far too irregular occurrence, he couldn't intervene. So he waited.

"How many?" Jack managed eventually. Pleasantly vague and yet heartbreakingly obvious as to what he was referring.

"837," Ianto replied after a slight pause, his voice muffled slightly as he buried his face into the softness of the pillow.

"Shit..."

"As you've said before." Ianto lifted his head, turning towards Jack ever so slightly, that half-smile creeping onto his face. "As our renowned leader, you really should be more versed in the facts and figures."

"Details, details," Jack waved his hand nonchalantly, batting away the playful accusation with a half-smile that mirrored Ianto's. The Welshman reached up, catching hold of Jack's hand and drawing his arm back around his waist, restoring the skin contact. Nothing was said, but the intimation was clear: _I need this_. Jack nodded slightly, his chin brushing against Ianto's shoulder.

_Me too._

Ianto bit his lip, swallowing the sob he could feel building in his throat. The guilt gnawed away incessantly at his insides, gripping tightly and twisting viciously; he wondered how Jack had dealt with this survivor's guilt throughout his long expanse of life. He could feel from the slight quiver in the breath of the older man that this was not something he had ever gotten used to...behind that aren't-I-brilliant Captain Jack Harkness facade was the unbelievable weight of a hundred losses.

"It feels like it's always someone else," he whispered softly, his hand gripping Jack's own as tightly as he could. Affection was not something they did regularly, but it was always there, lurking quietly in the background.

"I know," came the reply, the arm around his waist tightening. At that moment, Ianto realised had never felt this close to Jack before; the contact between them was so absolute that they melded together, almost into one being. A wave of quiet contentment washed through him briefly, before the guilt slammed into him again, unmitigated and relentless. He grimaced at the force of it.

"It's like..." he struggled to find the right words. "Like...I'm always the survivor."

Jack's lips brushed ever so gently against the back of Ianto's neck.

"You won't always be," he breathed, hardly audible. It was uttered almost to himself, but due to the quiet of the room and the proximity of their bodies, Ianto heard. He could even feel the sudden vibration as the words caught ever slightly in Jack's throat. He closed his eyes as he felt a solitary tear fall onto the skin of his neck, trying unsuccessfully to hold back his own.

Not for the last time that night, they held tightly onto each other as the grief took hold.

It wasn't much. But, for now, it was enough.

* * *

So...Like it? Love it? Loathe it? I welcome your criticisms and suggestions! Reviews are love, and garner rewards of _COOKIES!_


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